A Portrait Of Fred
by MePo
Summary: George Weasley finds a way to move on. "It's a lovely picture, one that speaks of happiness, of friendship, of a time when the world had not been a dark place, of love. Of Fred." Written while feeling incredibly bad about Fred's death.


George Weasley rolls over in bed, groaning as the curtains are yanked back and light floods his room. Squinting up at the intruder, he sees Angelina Johnson standing there, frowning down at him, tapping her foot rapidly. "Oh God," he says, covering his head with the sheets, which are unceremoniously pulled off as well. "Angelina, for the love of—"

"_George Weasley_," she says, her voice low and even. "It is your brother's wedding today, and you are not going to skip it, I don't care what your excuse is."

"Ange," he groans, sitting up. "Just- just this once, leave it, alright? Just leave it."

"I will _not_ leave it, George!" she exclaims, taking his hand and yanking him to his feet. Keeping his hand in a firm, vice-like grip, she drags him into the bathroom and pushes him into the shower, turning on the water. George yelps as ice-cold water cascades onto his head, fully waking him up. Reaching for the tap, he switches the shower off, letting out a colourful string of curses as he does. Angelina bites her lip to keep herself from smiling at how disgruntled he looks, stepping out of the bathroom and closing the door to give him some privacy.

She sinks onto the couch, waiting for him to come out, and as she does so, an album lying by his bed catches her eye. She _Accio_s it, and as it sails across the room, she hopes it's not what she thinks it is, but when it lands in her outstretched hands, her fears are confirmed. Emblazoned on the brown leather cover are the words "Twins" in red. She glances up at the bathroom, from where she can hear the shower being switched on again. She has plenty of time. Leaning back in the couch, she rests the album on her lap, and it falls open, revealing the page that George obviously looks at the most, for it is dog-eared, and has coffee stains along the periphery.

She sucks in a breath as she looks at the picture. Both twins are standing in the doorway of their room. George, both ears still intact, is leaning against the frame, his eyes scrunched up, howling with laughter, one arm thrown around Fred's shoulders. Fred is pointing gleefully at something that's not in the picture, his classic verging-on-manic-laughter-but-not-quite-there-yet expression on his face, an expression that is so typically, so quintessentially _Fred_ that it tugs at her heartstrings. The arm that's not pointing is slung around George's shoulders. They look around fourteen. It's a lovely picture, one that speaks of happiness, of friendship, of a time when the world had not been a dark place, of love. Of Fred.

She hears the door creaking as George exits the bathroom, rubbing at his hair with a towel, and looks up. He freezes as his eyes travel from her face to the album lying on her lap, and then back up to her face.

"Oh, George," she says, unable to say any more. He shuffles over to sit beside her, tossing the towel onto his bed.

"Fourth year," he says hoarsely. "Christmas vacations. We dyed Percy's hair green. Percy was livid. Took out his wand to hex us, but we had replaced that with one of our fake wands – we had just perfected the design. So he whips out his wand, roars some hex or the other (he had _just_ come of age), and the wand turns into a poodle." He runs a finger over one of the coffee stains. "It was hilarious." His voice breaks at the last word, and he suddenly grabs the album and snaps it shut. "Ange, look, I can't do the wedding today. It's – it's one of those days, Ange." He looks at her pleadingly, and she feels heart wrenchingly bad for him.

One of 'those' days. A very vague phrase, but she understands exactly what it means. One of those days when the hole inside him seems to grow bigger, and aches so badly that he can't concentrate on anything else. One of those days when he feels as though he'll never, ever come to terms with no longer being the second half of FredAndGeorge. One of those days when he wants, no, _needs_, someone to be finishing his sentences again, or to be finishing someone's sentences for them. One of those days when he lies in bed for hours, wishing that he had died too.

"George…" she says softly, unsure of how to proceed. "Look, I can't even begin to understand how you feel, obviously. But… You can't miss Ron's wedding, you just can't. He needs you there, George!" She hesitates for a minute, and then plows on. "You know, your mum called me over for dinner a couple of days ago, she said I work too hard in your shop and that I should get a break. You were meeting somebody about supplies that night. So I went. Ron is a _wreck,_ George. You should see him. He burst into the kitchen while I was helping Molly, and he started this rant about how Hermione was going to leave him at the altar, and nonsense like that. We calmed him down as best we could, but what he really needed was _you_. Because you would have assured him that if you were Hermione, you would have left him _ages_ ago, but since she hadn't, she was clearly brain-damaged, and therefore would probably not leave him at the altar."

George sinks his face into his hands, and moans out in a muffled voice, "I would need Fred there to say that stuff, Ange."

"George!" she exclaims, desperate to prevent him from sinking into complete gloom. "You've been almost like your old self these past few months, joking around and making the most inappropriate comments at the most inappropriate times. And now, as usual, you're having one of Those Days, and they always leave you broken, and it takes another couple of months for you to rebuild. Your family needs you. _I _need you. Maybe you haven't noticed how happy everyone else is when you're back to normal, but I have! So put on your jacket, pack up your clothes for the wedding, and let's go. You're stronger than this!" She stands up as she finishes speaking, tugging at his hand.

George sighs heavily and stands up, album still in his hands. He places it tenderly back on his side table, and then shrugs into a light blue jacket; it is cold outside. Running a brush apathetically through his red hair and slipping his feet into a pair of sandals, he turns to Angelina and offers her an arm. She takes it, and they apparate together to the Burrow.

It is still very early in the morning, eight o'clock, George realizes as they appear in the garden. The wedding's not due to start until four in the evening. It's deceptively peaceful outside; he knows that in a couple of hours, the tent will have to be set up, the chairs and tables arranged, the flowers prepared. He also knows that inside, the entire household will already be awake, bustling around, trying to fulfill his mother's orders, which are barked out at lightning speed. He should have spent the night here, he knows his mother wanted him to, but he just couldn't face a full house without Fred. Taking a deep sigh, and tightening his hold on Angelina's hand, he steps inside.

As soon as he is inside, his vision is obscured by his mother's vibrant red curls, and the breath is knocked out of him as her arms wrap around his middle and she hugs him so tightly that it seems as if she will never let him go.

"Oh, Georgie, I'm so glad you're here," she breathes, finally releasing him. "Angie, dear, how nice to see you. I feel terrible taking advantage of you, but would you mind helping Harry peel the potatoes? He's having quite a bit of trouble, and Ginny's with Hermione." Angie grins and mock-salutes, walking off towards the kitchen, from which a sudden, rather frightening yell of "BLOODY POTATOES!" emerges. Mrs. Weasley tuts and turns back to George. "We're so lucky to have Angie in our lives. Don't you think, dear?"

George rolls his eyes and tries to smile. It comes out more as a grimace. He knows what his mother is implying, what she _has_ _been_ implying for the past couple of years. She's convinced that Angelina is perfect for him, and sometimes George himself is not so sure what's holding him back, but something inexplicable keeps him from asking her out. Perhaps it is the fact that he cannot imagine being happy without Fred.

"Yes, mum, very lucky," he responds dully. Mrs. Weasley frowns at his lackluster tone, and then her expression abruptly changes. There is now a strange mixture of happiness and apprehension on her face as she gazes up at her son.

"George, I have a surprise for you," she says, pronouncing each word carefully. "I – I really don't know how you're going to react, sweetheart, but I think – I think in the long run you'll be happy with it." George's face now mirrors her apprehension, as he mentally goes through a list of what she could possibly have done.

As it turns out, he never could have predicted it.

Not noticing his frantic mental activity, his mother continues speaking. "Do you remember how, every time one of our children came of age, we would have an individual portrait painted?" George nods. "And do you remember how, when we had portraits of you and Fred done, you two said that it would be creepy being able to talk to yourselves? So you told me to have the finishing touches put when you moved out?" George nods again, comprehension dawning in his eyes, a lump slowly developing in his throat. "Well, I found the artist, and – and I had him put the finishing touches on Fred's." George stares at her, feeling utterly numb. There's a peculiar stinging in his eyes, but he controls it, determined not to cry; he hasn't cried since _that_ night, and he doesn't plan to start now. Molly must notice the change in his expression, because she reaches up and smoothes his hair off his forehead lovingly, and says, "It's in the attic. I haven't taken it out of its box. I thought –"

Before she can complete the sentence, George has taken off at a run for the attic. As he climbs the flights of stairs, he passes a variety of scenes: Harry and Angelina leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing and talking (probably about Quidditch), while the potatoes are peeling themselves in a huge tub on the floor; Fleur trying her best to quiet Victoire, who seems cranky, while Bill talks earnestly to someone's head in the grate, no doubt making arrangements for food, or drinks, or something of the sort; Percy obsessively rubbing away at various nooks and crannies with a dusting cloth, while a pretty, dark-haired woman whom George doesn't recognize watches him, her own dusting cloth hanging limply by her side. Ron's bedroom is the last one he passes; the door is firmly shut, but George is sure that Ron is wide awake. Finally, he reaches the door of the attic, where he stops for a moment. Even though there's a lump in his throat the size of a Bludger, and his eyes are stinging, he feels a wild happiness that he's going to talk to Fred. But at the same time, he prepares himself for the possibility that something will go wrong, because really, it seems too good to be true.

Entering the room, he is struck by the way time stands still in this particular spot. There is always a musty smell; the room is always dim, but not quite dark; there are dust covered boxes piled everywhere, arranged haphazardly around the room. His gaze is drawn to one conspicuously clean box, long, thin and rectangular. Portrait-shaped. He takes out his wand and unlocks it, and carefully lifts the portrait out, setting it up against a tall crate at one end of the attic. The portrait is covered with a maroon cloth. George kneels down in front of it, stretching his hands out and fingering the lower edge of the velvet. For a few minutes, he remains in this position, wondering what will happen when he finally lifts it up. He is brought out of his trance by a beloved, familiar voice saying, "Oi! Whoever that is, will you just bloody lift the cloth already?" He wrenches the cloth away from the portrait, closing his eyes as he does so.

And when he opens them, there's Fred.

He looks the same as he always has, the same as the picture of him that George has in his head. His blue eyes are sparkling, his red hair slightly longer than it was when he died, his patented grin (_their_ patented grin) firmly in place. For one long moment, the two brothers simply look at each other, and then Fred breaks the silence. "Hello there, you handsome devil," he grins. And suddenly, George is crying. Tears are pouring down his face unchecked, he cannot speak because of the pesky lump in his throat, but somehow he's smiling, too, as he simply stares at his twin, drinking him in.

After what seems like an eternity, the tears stop flowing, and the lump recedes. Throughout George's minor breakdown, Fred has been silent, looking at his brother through sympathetic eyes. Now, as George clears his throat and runs his hand over his face, a huge grin breaks out on both their faces. "It's so good to see you," they both say at the same time, and George's grin stretches from ear to ear, and he feels like his heart will burst from holding so much happiness in it.

And then they talk.

And talk.

And talk.

Finally, George checks his watch. He is surprised to see that three hours have passed. It is already eleven in the morning, and he is sure they are putting up the tent outside. He tells Fred about how Ron is reportedly a wreck, and maybe they should –

"Talk Ronniekins out of it?" Fred completes the sentence, causing George's grin widen even further, making his jaw ache. He nods, and he is happy, so unbelievably happy, that he can perhaps once more be half of a whole, even if it isn't the same thing as having Fred with him in the flesh. He scrambles to his feet, hefting the portrait into his arms so that Fred is facing away from him, so that he can also take in the scenes unfolding as the second Weasley wedding takes place.

...

Six years later, George sits by the fire in his flat, no longer a grim, unhappy place, with one-and-a-half-year-old Roxanne on his knee, gripping a cup of tea. Fred is sleeping above the mantelpiece. He snores lightly, making Roxanne giggle. Angelina sits opposite them, also with a cup of tea in her hand, smiling contentedly. In a few hours, the entire Weasley clan, including Ginny and Harry and their son, James Sirius, will arrive for their monthly family dinner. Mrs. Weasley will mollycoddle (no pun intended) all the grandchildren. Mr. Weasley will pore over FredAndGeorge's plans for the shop. Fred will flirt outrageously with everyone's wives, and will mercilessly tease Charlie when he arrives sans girlfriend (his last relationship was a year ago, and went horribly wrong when the girl tried to get him to give up his beloved dragons). Angelina will get horribly flustered while cooking, as she always does, until George sits her down in the living room and takes over in the kitchen himself.

Everything will be perfect.


End file.
